


Lay Me At Your Altar

by reywritethestar



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Ancient Greece, Badass Rey, F/M, Hades and Persephone, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Mutual Pining, Protective Kylo Ren, Soft Ben Solo, Virgin Ben Solo, Virgin Rey (Star Wars), all the ancient geek god pettiness and horniness you could desire, my deepest apologies, so i decided to write it but reylo, the hades and persephone myth is basically all the juciest tropes rolled into one, the rating will change as the story progresses just fyi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:36:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24481333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reywritethestar/pseuds/reywritethestar
Summary: The God of Death reluctantly treads the earth once more as he comes to collect a particularly stubborn soul.He doesn't notice the girl until the scent of honeysuckle reaches him.The glade is like nothing he’s ever seen before. The earth is a carpet of wildflowers that form a riot of colour that stretches as far as the eye can see through the grove. Various butterflies and bees flutter and hum languidly through the air, drunk on the sweet perfume of honeysuckle. It’s clear at once that it has an unearthly beauty - surely the work of Demeter, he thinks - with its fragrant honeysuckle and lush ferns. Yet all of Demeter's fine handiwork pales in comparison to the girl in front of him.In which Rey is Goddess of Spring and Kylo - the God of Death - tries to ignore how hopelessly in love he is with her, convinced that they can never be together. How wrong he is.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Rose Tico, Kylo Ren/Rey, Poe Dameron/Finn, Rey & Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 29
Kudos: 145





	Lay Me At Your Altar

**Author's Note:**

> Hello gang! Here it is, the beginning of Lay Me At Your Altar. I'm beyond excited to share my first ever multi-chapter fic; I don't know how long the chapter count for this one is going to be, but I'm estimating around twelve at this moment in time. 
> 
> Seeing as our beloved space babies are gods/ goddesses in Ancient Greece, I've compiled a glossary in the Author's Notes at the end of chapter for any unfamiliar terms/ lore.
> 
> I usually live on my [Twitter](https://twitter.com/reywritethestar) where I take microfic prompts and yell about Reylo. Come and say hi!

_**Chapter 1** _

Dawn stretches her rosy fingers across the open sky as he sets foot upon the earth for the first time in three centuries.

The grass wilts beneath his feet, the birds fall silent as he glides beneath their branches. Even the soft morning light that dapples the forest floor seems to shrink at his approach. He doesn't mind, though; he prefers it this way. The birds are too shrill, the sun too bright for his dark eyes and pale skin. He has many names: Hades, King of the Underworld, God of Shadows, Owner of the Helm of Darkness, He Who Walks Unseen. All very grand names, but in his realm of ghosts he has only one: Kylo Ren, God of Death.

There’s a reason Kylo doesn’t frequent the mortal planes too often, and even then it’s only when his brother is bored and shipwrecks an ill-fated vessel to force him to, in his words, ‘get some fresh air’. Kylo constantly tells him that not only does the Underworld have plenty of fresh air, it’s preferable to the heat and the noise of this world. He expressly forbids any more of these shipwreck summonings; it’s wasteful of human life and entirely unnecessary. Of course, his lectures fall on deaf ears.

He wouldn't need to be here at all if it weren't for an annoyingly resilient hero who just can't seem to die. No matter. As the Fates have foretold it, so it shall be done - he has a talent for aggressive negotiating anyway.

Lost in thought, he doesn't even notice the girl until the scent of honeysuckle reaches him.

The glade is like nothing he’s ever seen before - and that’s saying something. The earth is a carpet of wildflowers that form a riot of colour that stretches as far as the eye can see through the grove. Trees line the edge of the clearing: great olive trees with delicate tendrils of vines wrapped around their trunks, dark cypress trees shelter silvery birch saplings under their branches. Various butterflies and bees flutter and hum languidly through the air, drunk on the sweet perfume of honeysuckle. It’s clear at once that it has an unearthly beauty - surely the work of Demeter, he thinks - with its fragrant honeysuckle and lush ferns. Yet all of Demeter's fine handiwork pales in comparison to the girl in front of him.

Kneeling among the flowers, she hums as she threads a narcissus through her hair. He drinks in the sight of her: golden skin with smatterings of freckles, wild chestnut brown hair with a wreath of flowers woven throughout it, slim fingers that coax new seedlings from the earth. A shaft of sunlight bursts through the clouds to illuminate her and in that moment, not even Apollo in all his golden glory could hold a candle to her radiance.

In a daze he steps closer towards her, his buskin-clad feet soft against the rich soil. He’s as silent as the depths of the earth, he is the night itself, he is...

Not as smooth as he thinks, apparently, because he steps on an errant twig. The snap ricochets through the clearing, and the girl whips round to look at him, startled.

He stands there, frozen as he gazes down at the girl knelt in front of him.

His heart sinks as he watches surprise turn to recognition in her honey-coloured eyes. He waits for the terror that inevitably follows, as it tends to do when people realise that it is the God of Death that stands before them. He straightens to his full height, letting her see him in all his monstrous splendor. The girl tracks her gaze up his body, tracking the grotesque scar that snakes up his chest and throat before disappearing under his Helm. Her eyes widen when she finally notices his Helm, the way he shimmers and turns translucent whenever the light touches him.

She opens her mouth, presumably to scream for help, but Kylo beats her to it. In an instant, he darts over and claps a hand over her mouth. She falls back against his chest with a gasp, the warmth of her skin seeping through their tunics.

He steadies her with a hand on her waist as he bends his head to her ear, vaguely registering the way she shivers when the cool metal of his helm brushes her cheek. “You would be wise not to scream, young one. I’m not here to- ”

He barely has time to register the blinding pain in his groin before the vines begin to slither up his legs and arms, binding his limbs together and forcing him to his knees. Kylo thrashes against his constraints as he turns his head this way and that, but the girl is nowhere to be found.

“ _Malakes_ nymphs,” he mutters to himself.

“Call me a nymph again, I dare you,” her voice rings through the glade from behind him, clear but with a hint of a tremble. 

He turns his head this way and that, searching for her but his Helm restricts his field of vision to only a thin rectangle of light. Kylo feels the first sparks of annoyance beginning to kindle in his core; holding a god hostage is impertinence of the highest degree.

“Then how, pray tell, may I address my generous host,” he growls as black mist begins to flow from his clenched fists, “or have you forgotten the laws of hospitality?” The smoke coils around the vines on his body, leeching the life out of them. A smirk tugs at the edge of his lips as the bonds begin to loosen.

As he expected, the girl emerges from her hiding place behind a gnarled olive tree at the insult, stomping over to him until she’s so close he could touch her. How predictable: the only thing that wins out over a nymph’s stubbornness is their pride. “Don’t preach the laws of hospitality to me, you...you lecher!” 

“I’m pretty sure they don’t say anything about trussing up your guests in unusual flora and holding them hostage,” he grits out before the insult registers. “Wait, lecher?!”

His confusion and annoyance only seems to anger the girl further, as her hands curl into fists at her side and begins to prowl around him. “You Olympians are all the same: you trample all over our hard work, complain about how you’re running out of mead, and fool around...no, take _advantage_ of us -” 

“By Zeus, what are you talking about?” Kylo’s own voice begins to rise; he’s quickly losing patience with the situation. If Poe ever catches wind of this - the great Kylo Ren being strung up by a nymph like a lamb on a spit - he’ll never let him live it down. On the bright side, he’s almost free; he can feel the vines withering more with every passing second, he just needs a little more slack…

Kylo glances down in astonishment to find that instead of crumbling into ashes, the vines are intact and as green and full of life as before he started his escape plan. They tighten, so tight that they dig into his skin in a way that would be painful if he wasn’t, well, a god. After so many centuries of dealing with the antics of dead mortals on a daily basis, it has become extremely difficult to surprise him, but Kylo has to admit: he’s thoroughly perplexed.

“I know everything I need to know about you, _Hades_ ,” the girl spits as she comes back into view, staring down at him with reproach...no. The look in her eyes, so warm when Kylo first stumbled upon her, is not just reproachful - they _seeth_ with hatred. “I’ve heard the stories: you think you can just take whatever you please and that nothing will come of it. You take the souls of mortals and the virtue of nymphs.” Her hands begin to tremble as she crouches down, baring her teeth at him so ferociously even the Nemean Lion would turn tail at the sight. “It’s no wonder you have no temples, no one to worship you, because even the humans know -”

“Know what?” Kylo interrupts, his voice low and laced with danger despite the strange weight that has lodged itself in his chest.

They stay that way for a few tense moments, only a few feet apart and bristling with anger and hurt. The only sounds are the whisper of the flowers that wave in the wind and the ripple of the girl’s tunic, the gossamer lilac fabric fluttering around her. Kylo’s own tunic and cloak remain still, the black wool too heavy for the light Spring breeze.

The vines tighten even further as the girl leans forward and Kylo stifles a gasp as they cut into his flesh. A wet warmth begins to trickle down his arms, and he stares down at the small rivulets of blood that now lace his forearms, the gold liquid stark against his forearms, stained a pitch black from an eternity of dealing with death. He turns back to face the girl and finds himself almost nose to nose with her; she’s so close Kylo could count every freckle on her nose and cheeks. 

Placing a hand on either side of his helm, the girl begins to slide it up. She’s smiling sweetly, but her next words cut even deeper than the vines. “That you are no god. You’re just a creature in a mask.”

It’s nothing Kylo hasn’t heard before, but coming from her...Kylo feels rage and sorrow of a magnitude he’s never felt before surge through him. The girl takes his helm off just as the vines crumble to dust, black mist billowing all around them. The whole clearing is plunged into a darkness so thick and stifling, Kylo can’t even see his own hand in front of his face, let alone the girl. He’s almost certain she’s run away with his precious helm and curses himself for his rashness. Yet when the mist eventually clears and light begins to creep into the glade once more, there she stands. She looks just like a hunted deer: eyes wide as medallions and rooted to the spot, poised to flee at the slightest sudden movement.

“Your eyes...th- they’re golden,” the girl whispers in awe as she clutches his helm closer to her chest, “and your hands, they...”

Kylo’s anger ebbs away as quickly as it swelled, struck with the sight of how huge his helm looks between her dainty hands, how her eyes dart over his face and body with a mix of fear and curiosity.

“Ah, yes. They tend to do that.” Kylo clasps his hands behind his back and looks away from her, hoping his cloak covers his forearms and willing his eyes to return to their normal, ugly black colour. Someone like her shouldn’t have to see him like this. “I’m apologise for the intrusion, it won’t happen again,” he says in a stilted voice as he looks everywhere except the girl across the glade, “now if you just return my helm to me, I’ll be on my way.”

“Oh,” the girl glances down at the object in her hands with surprise, as if she’d forgotten that she had taken it, “of course.”

She lets go of the helm and it floats over to Kylo. He catches it deftly, polishing it with a corner of his cloak before tucking it under his arm. They regard each other, both entranced by the other. In the silence, a new flower - a vibrant crimson colour - springs from the wreath in her hair. As a faint flush of colour spreads across the girl’s cheeks, Kylo begins to see his surroundings with fresh eyes: he sees the vines that wind around the trunks of the olive trees that lie at the edge of the glade and remembers their power. Indeed, the entire glade is filled with a glorious cacophony of life, any nymph that attempted such a feat would have been drained in an instant...

He steps towards her and immediately stops as she turns to flee, his arms outstretched as if to calm a skittish horse. “I won’t hurt you,” he rushes out in a rather un-godlike fashion.

This seems to placate her, as her shoulders relax slightly even though she still seems to be on guard. “So what are you here for if not to abduct me?” She quirks an eyebrow, only half-joking.

Kylo bristles. “Unlike the others, I’m too preoccupied with the upkeep of the Underworld to kidnap beautiful maidens like yourself. Also, the business of the gods is classified information.”

For the first time since they’ve met, it is the girl who reels back with surprise. “You think I’m beautiful?”

Kylo suddenly finds the fern at his feet extremely interesting. “How about I’ll tell you my business if you tell me who you are,” he counters gruffly.

She sizes him up for a moment, before giving him a smile scattering all thoughts of duty and matters of death to the four winds. "Sounds like a deal," she closes the distance between them, standing merely an arm’s length away. She bows her head in formality but the smile still tugs at the corner of her lips. "𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘦, God of Shadows. I’m Kore, the Goddess of Spring, but I prefer just Rey."

"Rey." His lips savour her name, tasting as sweet as nectar on his tongue. They gaze at each other a moment longer, the birds chirping quietly as the sun climbs higher into the sky. “The goddess I’ve heard so much about. You know, I should punish you for your...numerous transgressions,” he says with a small smile as he folds his arms.

Kore’s eyes drop to his arms and widen at the sight of the fresh scars, now completely healed. “Was that me?” There’s genuine anguish in her voice as she reaches out to lay a hand on his arm. Kylo jerks his arms back behind his back and Kore quickly retracts her own hand. “I really am sorry. I’m still coming to grips with my powers and it’s my first Spring that I’m in charge of and it’s just a lot...” 

She trails off, gazing up at him with such remorse in her eyes Kylo immediately rushes to assuage her.

“No, no, don’t worry about it. These things happen.” 

Kore scuffs the earth with her heel, her eyes trained on the grass that sprouts beneath her feet, before glancing up at him through her lashes. “And sorry for assuming you were here to defile me.”

Kylo nearly chokes on his tongue. “Well,” he coughs, "as much I would love to keep you company Kore, I have to collect a particularly stubborn soul," he waves a hand in the general direction of the unfortunate hero, his soul flickering faintly in the distance.

"Oh. Right," her face falls, and her words from earlier echo in his ears.

_You take the souls of mortals and the virtue of nymphs._

But all other thoughts escape his mind as Kore closes the distance between them until they’re so close their tunics almost brush together. "Well in that case," she murmurs, looking up at him through her long lashes "may I give you a token of goodwill for your journey? It’s the least I can do."

This close, she smells of fresh rain and melting snow, of budding leaves and damp earth. She licks her lips, stained red by some sort of berry or fruit. Zeus help him, Kylo can't resist flicking his gaze down to drink in the sight. 

"Of course." He answers, his heart beating like a hummingbird's wings.

With a small smile, she reaches and plucks a narcissus from one of her buns before leaning in and gently tucking the flower behind his ear. It doesn't wilt.

Her hand lingers on his chest as she draws back, her cheeks flushed. "Safe travels."

"Thank you," he says softly, feeling warmth bloom in his chest for the first time in millennia.

  
  


# 🏺

Kylo retrieves the soul of the hero and retreats into the depths of the Underworld without looking back. Yet even as countless moon cycles slip by and Helios continues to drive his chariot across the skies, he can’t stop thinking of her. Kore.

Gods may be immune to the jaws of winter and howling winds, but they can still feel the pang of sorrow, the stabs of jealousy. The ache of longing.

He’s still devoted to his work, of course. The Underworld may have been built in a day, but it takes an eternity to maintain. Yet where he was once engrossed in his work - Poe would call it obsessive - he now goes through the motions, his mind constantly wandering to Kore and the world above.

Kylo even begins to see her in the Underworld. He sees her when a woman arrives on the shores and is instantly embraced by her mother, their silvery forms falling to the ground as they cling to each other after a lifetime apart. He sees her in the Elysian Fields, where lovers stroll among the billowing waves of longrass. He sees her everywhere, which only emphasises how utterly hopeless his infatuation is. How could he bring her here, into the dank underbelly of the world, when she breathes life into everything around her? He stares at his hands; millenia of dealing with death have stained them so black, they could give Nyx a run for her money. He thinks of when he first laid eyes on Kore, how she was coaxing a seedling into full bloom, its soft petals bursting forth at her tender touch.

His hands curl into fists so tight the inky black creeps up his veins until his forearms are nothing more than a web of darkness. What an idiot he is, to even think that she could care for him.

“ _Anax_!”

He jerks his head up to see Mitakos rushing up the stone steps towards him, Phasma not far behind. Kylo sighs, tucking the flower away. Mediating the ever-enduring quarrel between the death-spirits and the Furies was tiresome at best, making immortality seem like a punishment at worst.

Mitakos flings himself at Kylo’s feet, his soft grey wings ruffling in distress. He mumbles incoherently into the black marble of the huge throne just as Phasma arrives, her own enormous wings the fierce crimson of a winter sun.

“Hades, this fool insists that a human’s soul be spared -” she begins.

“Lies! I only think -”

“I don’t _care_ what you think, Mitakos, he doesn’t deserve -”

“He killed his father _unknowingly_ -”

“...doesn’t deserve something so merciful as a peaceful death, he deserves a life of madness -”

“ _Anax_ , I implore you -”

Kylo silences them with a raised hand, the other one massaging his temple. Gods aren’t afflicted with human ailments, but it’s times like these when he imagines this is what it feels like when the mortals complain of a headache.

“Enough. I will hear both sides of the matter and judge accordingly,” he settles back on his throne. “And get up off the floor, Mitakos. It’s undignified.”

Mitakos shuffles back to stand next to Phasma, tucking his wings away.

“Mitakos, you first.”

The death-spirit puffs out his chest, glancing at the scowling Fury with a smirk on his face. “Are you aware of the tragedy that has befallen the ruling family of Thebes?” 

Kylo inclines his head. He had suspected as much when the King had arrived on his shores, the Queen following soon thereafter.

“Well it appears that their ill-fated son may have killed his father-”

Phasma scoffs. “ _May_ have killed his father? Don’t make me laugh -” 

“ _Silence_ ,” Kylo thunders, his voice slicing through the still air. The tendrils of inky black bleed further up his arms, past his elbows as he leans forward. Every inch of the throne room crackles with raw power, the perpetual dusk that blankets the underworld darkening until their surroundings are as murky as an ocean abyss. Kylo’s eyes flash golden in the gloom at his cowering subjects, the scar on his face and chest also flashing like molten metal. “You will have your chance to speak, Phasma, but I _will_ have order. Is that understood?”

“Understood,” Phasma mumbles as she straightens, shifting uneasily.

Kylo relaxes, and the electricity that lies thick in the air dissipates as if it were never there. “Good. Continue, Mitakos.”

“So it appears that the prince has killed his father,” the death-spirit admits, scowling at Phasma, “but he did so unknowingly!” He turns back to Kylo, eyes beseeching, “Please spare him from a life of madness, _anax_ , his fate was foretold by the Pythia -”

“I see. What do you have to say?” Kylo nods Phasma, who immediately launches into her tirade.

“Foretold or not, his fate has led him to commit murder. Now I know you’re somewhat lenient towards patricide, Hades, but this is a mortal. If he goes unpunished, the other mortals might begin to doubt our effectiveness. I believe it is the Furies’ job to punish the mortals accordingly, which I was about to do until _Mitakos_ ,” Phasma spits his name as she glares at the death-spirit, “decided to meddle in our affairs. He is a murderer: he deserves a life of madness, and certainly not something so merciful as a quick, painless death.” 

Kylo lounges across his seat, throwing one leg over an arm of the throne as he considers the matter. Without thinking, his fingers move to toy with a leather pouch that hangs around his neck. He’s not one for accessories, but this amulet is an exception.

After a few tense minutes of silence, he rises from the throne so suddenly that the spirits jump, a few feathers fluttering to the ground at Mitakos’ feet.

“I’ve decided,” Kylo says as he strides towards them, “that this isn’t a matter that concerns me. Yet.”

Phasma smirks in triumph as Mitakos lets out a cry of protest.

“But _anax_ -”

“The Fates have spoken,” Kylo interjects as he turns back towards the throne. “As it is foretold, so it shall be done.”

“Thank you, Hades. My sisters and I will remember this.” Phasma says as she retreats down the steps to the Ferryman. “ _Chaire_.”

No sooner is she gone than Mitakos falls to his knees, despondent.

“He doesn’t deserve such a wretched life,” he croaks, tears dripping on the ebony marble. He lifts his head, his teary eyes boring into Kylo’s. “With respect, _anax_ , you could have spared him. You could have spared him, and the Fury wouldn’t have been able to do a thing about it.”

Kylo sighs and clicks his fingers. The braziers that line the cavernous room spring into life, casting deep shadows across his chiselled features.

“He wasn’t mine to save. Besides,” he smiles bitterly as he reaches for the leather pouch again, “not even the God of Death can cheat Fate. Leave.”

Kylo remains frozen on his throne long after Mitakos has left, staring into space. After a while, he opens the leather pouch and gingerly fishes out a flower.

It’s still as fresh and radiant as the day Kore gave it to him, a flicker of life in this dingy, lightless world. He twirls it around as he gazes in awe at the petals, a creamy white and so translucent he can count every delicate blue vein that runs within it. It now goes wherever he goes, it’s soft glow illuminating the winding paths that thread throughout his kingdom. He’s always revelled in these dark passages, these catacombs of the world. But to have something to light the way - to care for - even if it’s something as small as a flower? It’s...pleasant. 

His mind strays to the giver of his new treasure, the twinkle in her eye as she rose on her tiptoes, steadying herself with a hand on his chest.

It’s a work of art, Kylo thinks as he inhales its sweet scent. A surge of…of _something_ floods through him as he strokes the lush folds, a feeling he can’t quite place.

After centuries of watching old friends, families, lovers reunite after a lifetime of loss and heartbreak, Kylo always wonders what possesses mortals to become so attached to the people they care for; they all cross his river, eventually.

Now, as he cradles the blossom in his death-stained hands, he begins to understand why.

  
  


# 🏺

Kylo isn’t surprised when news reaches him about a shipwreck, with an errant soul trapped among the debris. Poe was bound to get bored at some point, and a summoning was long overdue.

When Kylo arrives on the beach and removes his Helm, his heart sinks as he sees not one, but two figures lounging on what was left of the deck.

“Yoohoo! Over here!” Kylo groans at the all-too familiar voice: Ephinaeus, the most arrogant of sea nymphs and the most beloved of Poe’s advisors. Kylo would never admit it to him, but he would make an excellent Judge of Character in the Underworld.

“How’s my favourite Titan Traitor today?” the nymph calls as Kylo hoists himself up onto the deck. Kylo lets out an amused huff as he sees the obscene pile of oysters that Finn and Poe are currently munching their way through, discarded shells littered all around them. “Do you need more kelp for your hair pomade?”

Kylo narrows his eyes as he looms over Finn. “I could drag you to the Underworld and no one would bat an eye.”

“I quiver with fear.” Finn deadpans before slurping obnoxiously on an oyster.

“Shut up, both of you,” Poe leans back against the mast, “you’re ruining my tanning time.”

Kylo rolls his eyes, his cloak swirling behind him as he turns to leave. “Apologies. I’ll be on my way then.”

“Ah, not so fast. I’ve heard through the gossip grapevine that you had a little date with a certain Goddess of Spring.”

Kylo’s head whips around so quickly, it would have snapped any mortal’s neck like a twig. How could Poe, of all the meddlesome gods, know about Kore? He’s usually so wrapped up in toying with the mortals, or tanning, or chasing after Ephinaeus - 

His gaze flicks to the nymph, who is currently sand-polishing Poe’s trident and looking at him with the biggest shit-eating grin Kylo’s ever seen.

He’s a hair’s breadth away from dragging Finn to the Underworld, Poe’s inevitable wrath be damned, when he restrains himself. No. No one can know that since he met her, the girl that’s thrown his world out of balance, he’s implored Hypnos to bring him sleep just so he can see her in his dreams. He thinks of the flower in his chambers deep beneath the earth, it’s scent still fresh, it’s petals still a luminous white in the gloom of the Underworld.

Kylo casually leans back against a wooden beam like he’s seen the mortals do as they go about their inane daily lives and crosses his arms over his chest.

“That wouldn’t happen to be a gossip grapevine grown by the nymphs, would it?” He shoots a glare at Finn, who just gives him an angelic smile in return. 

_Malakes_ nymphs.

“Perhaps,” Poe says as he tilts his face up to the sun, not a drop of sweat on his chiselled features, “but stop changing the subject, I want all the details.” 

Kylo shrugs, feigning nonchalance as best he can. “There’s not much to tell. I stumbled across her, we talked, I went on my way.” He glances at Poe, who has fixed him with a withering stare. “What?”

Poe sighs as he steals an oyster from Finn’s pile. “Just...be careful, okay? Whilst I’m happy that you’re finally, you know, letting your hair down or whatever, the others might not look too kindly on you shacking up with the Goddess of Spring -”

Kylo knows Poe is purposely trying to raise his hackles, to force his guard down, but he can’t help himself; he rises to the bait. 

“I’m not shacking up with her,” Kylo grits out as he strides across the deck the way a panther stalks its prey. His shadow lengthens despite the midday sun beating down on them, darkening the crevices of the wreckage..

He bends down to look Poe square in the eye, “And don’t talk about her like that. Ever again,” he says in a tone that could freeze over the gates of Tartarus itself. An eerie hush falls over their surroundings: the gull wheel silently in the sky, the sound of the water lapping against the skeleton of the ship ceases, even the crash of the waves rolling onto the shore nearby seems to become muffled. The very air seems to go still, the brisk wind deadened by an earthly force. Kylo and Poe are like statues as they size each other up.

After a moment, Kylo’s gaze flicks to Finn and notes the way his throat bobs nervously, the way he’s crouched with his feet flat on the splintering wood. No amount of bravado in the world can mask the look of a nymph ready to run.

A flash in his peripheral vision causes Kylo’s gaze to snap back to Poe, only to see the god run a hand through his curls as he shakes his head.

“Temper, temper,” Poe tuts, and Kylo is starting to wonder whether immortals are capable of having a death wish when he holds his hands up in surrender. “Look, I’m sorry I hurt your feelings, okay? No more Kylo and Kore sitting in a tree jokes.” Finn lets out a small cry of protest at that.

“Good. _Chaire_ ,” Kylo mumbles as he straightens and leaps down onto the sand, fully intending to leave this time. The gloom melts away almost instantly as a gust of wind ruffles the tattered sail hanging off the mast. A gull lets out a tentative cry above them. 

Just as he presses his palms to the sand, Poe interrupts him. “If you answer one last question, I swear I’ll leave you alone for six moon cycles.”

Kylo lifts his eyes to where Poe now leans on a precarious chunk of railing, spinning his trident in his hands. It’s a tempting offer...

He narrows his eyes. “Twelve.”

Poe sighs. “Fine, twelve. So riddle me this: how come we can’t rib you about your blossoming romance with the lovely Goddess of Spring when you teased me so mercilessly about my own conquests?”

Kylo’s hands dig into the sand and the ground begins to sudder, the sand spilling down into the abyss he’s created. He looks back at his Finn and Poe, with their sun-kissed skin and windswept hair, their bodies lithe and lean from living in the open air and clear waters. Just like Rey, with her chestnut hair and freckled nose, her gossamer lilac tunic whispering against his heavy, woolen cowl and pale skin.

When he replies, Kylo tries to sound as disinterested as possible.

“Because there’s nothing there, Poe,” he says as he descends down into the pitch dark once more, “there’s nothing.”

The thought lingers in Kylo’s head long after he’s safely ensconced back in his chambers. 

Stripping down to his loincloth, he paces back and forth for Zeus knows how long before he stalks over to the looking glass that hangs on the wall, the polished silver gleaming in the firelight.

How the other gods would laugh, if they knew he was fretting like a lovesick satyr over Kore. If they knew how utterly, hopelessly infatuated he was. He hangs his head in despair.

For hopeless it was: how could she want him, with his ghostly complexion and cold skin? Even if she did, how could he drag her down into the Underworld to rule with him and deprive the world of her singing, sweeter than any dawn chorus he’s ever heard? How could he deprive the earth of her gift, her brilliance, her spirit?

He lifts his gaze back to the mirror and looks at the reflection that stares back at him, eyes filled with thinly veiled revulsion. His eyes train down the scar that marrs half of his face, follows the puckered line down his neck before the sight of the leather pouch gives him pause. It glows faintly, it’s white light illuminating his chest. Taunting him.

Kylo tears at the leather pouch with a snarl, snapping the cord that hangs around his neck clean off and hurls it on his bed. He crawls beneath the sheets and sighs in relief as the cool air hits his skin. He just wants to wipe today from his memory, erase the feel of the sun on his skin, the glint of the water, the abject humiliation. He softly chants, begging Hypnos to bring him sleep, anything to to occupy his mind.

Yet as he lingers in the hazy world between sleep and waking, his fingers brush against the pouch.

In a daze, he conjours up a shallow amphora made of ebony clay and filled with water. He languidly twitches his fore and middle finger and the flower floats into the air before settling on the surface of the water, to be preserved for eternity.

Just as a deep slumber threatens to drag him into oblivion, one last thought swirls around his mind.

It’s true, not even the God of the Dead can cheat Fate - but he can try.

He dreams of bright brown eyes and a tender hand ghosting across his skin, and awakens to discover a strange calm has settled within his breast. 

It’s time to pay the mortal realm another visit.

**Author's Note:**

> GLOSSARY:
> 
> [Helm of Darkness](https://greekmythology.wikia.org/wiki/Helm_of_Darkness)  
> [Demeter](https://greekmythology.wikia.org/wiki/Demeter)  
> [Nemean Lion](https://greekmythology.wikia.org/wiki/Nemean_Lion)  
> [Chaire](https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%CF%87%CE%B1%E1%BF%96%CF%81%CE%B5) \- Hello/ Goodbye  
> [Helios](https://greekmythology.wikia.org/wiki/Helios)  
> [Elysian Fields](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elysian_Fields)  
> [Nyx](https://greekmythology.wikia.org/wiki/Nyx)  
> [Anax](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anax) \- King  
> [The Furies](https://greekmythology.wikia.org/wiki/The_Furies)  
> [Pythia](https://greekmythology.wikia.org/wiki/The_Pythia)  
> [Hypnos](https://greekmythology.wikia.org/wiki/Hypnos)


End file.
